


no more false heavens

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom Bellamy Blake, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Hate Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Sub Clarke Griffin, but it's not actually hate they just have so much baggage, lmao where do I start, probably incorrect homesteading idk we all know youre here for the sex, well first break it more and then fix it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Clarke is very aware that hate sex isnotthe most emotionally intelligent method of rebuilding a broken relationship, but these days she only ever feels at peace when Bellamy’s in control. If he needs to break her to forgive her, so be it.And hey - it’s not like there’s anyone else left alive to judge them.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 104
Kudos: 453
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe jrot wrote a finale so bad I have to dust off my clown hat and climb back into this dumpster fire. Anyway, MY Clarke Griffin would never shoot Bellamy. But for the sake of extremely indulgent hatesex, we’re going to momentarily suspend disbelief and pretend that she did.

"If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best."

― Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

So this is what comes after the end of the human race: every human in the universe blooms into gold, and Clarke is the one moron left behind chasing after a dog, because even the fucking _dog_ doesn’t want to spend another second with her. She runs because there’s no other option. Because the horror of another lifetime on her own without even the hope that someone might be waiting at the end to hug her - that’s not a fucking option. So she keeps running, even after branches scratch at her cheeks, even after her breath runs ragged down her throat, even after the bright gold flash of Picasso’s tail vanishes into the foliage and she’s running blind through the tears in her eyes and every fiber of her being wants to _scream_ at the unfairness -

Clarke bursts out onto a rocky beach, skidding on pebbles. Picasso is further down the shore, trotting at the boundary where the water laps at the broken earth, her tail going a million miles an hour. And there’s… there’s someone there, a single silhouette seated on a large piece of twisted driftwood, head bowed beneath beneath the sky. Clarke stops breathing. 

She thinks it’s a dream until Picasso reaches him and licks at his hands. He straightens up a little and pets her head obligingly. If it’s a dream, she and Picasso are sharing it, and there’s a distinct lack of things dogs would dream of. No, this is a dream for Clarke, one designed to break what’s left of her heart. She trails helplessly after Picasso, still gasping for breath, her head spinning. 

He doesn’t lift his head, even as she stutters to a halt just steps away from him.

"Bellamy..." Clarke whispers. She knows he’s heard her because she sees the muscle in his jaw clench, but the hand he has on Picasso’s ear remains as gentle as ever. "You’re supposed to be dead."

It doesn’t make sense, because she killed him herself, and something broke the minute she did. If there was any good in the universe, she killed it when she killed him, and she saw him bleed, she heard the quiet gasp of shock he made, she felt herself unravel. She killed him, and he’s here in front of her, and he raises his head so, so reluctantly. She’s not prepared for the coldness of his eyes. 

"Guess you failed." he says flatly, and he probably means she failed to kill him, but the test is so raw, so fresh in her mind that she can’t help but feel wounded in more ways than one. 

"I did," she whispers. "Bellamy, you were right, and I nearly cost us - "

He scoffs and stands as another terrible thought occurs to her. "Wait, Bellamy, if you’re not dead why are you still here? You wouldn’t have failed transcendence, you believed, you were good." He’s walking away before she’s done talking, shaking his head. Picasso thumps her tail on the rocks and whines, looking anxiously between them. Clarke starts after him, nearly stumbling as Picasso leaps up to keep pace and nearly trips her. "Bellamy! Where are you going?"

"Away."

"Where?" Clarke asks, her voice cracking.

Bellamy turns and keeps walking backwards. He spreads his arms mockingly. "Haven’t you heard, Princess?" he asks. "We’re the last fucking people in the universe. You and I can take half the planet each and never have to interact again."

"I don’t - wait, we shouldn’t split up."

She runs to keep up as he turns forward and marches on. She reaches out, her hand almost to his shoulder, and he spins around just as her fingertips brush the soft white fabric of those ridiculous Bardo robes, knocking her wrist away so sharply it stings. 

"What part of _I don’t want to see you_ was confusing for you?" he asks, looming up over her, making her take a step back. 

"I’m sorry. About all of it," Clarke breathes, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Bellamy is silent for a moment, staring at her with burning eyes, the muscles in his neck strained with anger. 

"I don’t care," he says at last. "It happened and now we have to live with it."

This time when he walks away, Clarke doesn’t follow. Every step he takes further from her is another bullet to the heart.

* * *

Despite his words, Bellamy doesn’t go far. It turns out that she doesn’t have to worry about finding him, even if they do have the entire rest of the planet to roam, because Picasso ambles steadily back and forth between them, her keen nose tracking them both down faster than Clarke’s earth skills ever could.

The sixth time she cocks her head at Clarke and whines, Clarke sighs. "I know girl. I don’t want to be apart either."

She only makes it about a day before she goes looking for Bellamy again. She lurks at the edges of his camp a long while before approaching, finding signs of his mark on the woods. For some reason they’re more convincing than the presence of his body. She knows she’s capable of hallucinating him. She’s not sure her mind would think to hallucinate his white coat hung neatly from a broken tree branch, or the stumps of the small green saplings he’s sawed through so recently there are still beads of gold-brown sap on them. As she drifts closer, it becomes clearer what he’s working on - there is only the beginning of a wall so far, a dozen of the saplings lashed together in the gap between two trees, and a dirt floor with all the leaves and twigs brushed away. 

Ridiculous, the ways they choose to cope with the extinction of the human race. She wanders the woods crying all day and he starts building a cabin.

He comes into sight then, balancing another sapling on his shoulder, and Clarke’s mouth goes dry. He’s stripped down to just a plain white top and white pants that already have dirt and grass stains on the knees and along the helm, and if it weren’t for all the white she could pretend it’s the old Bellamy, the one she used to know. She watches a smile bloom across his face as Picasso trots up to him, wagging her tail, and he sets the log down so he can kneel and scratch her behind the ears. She’s not quite near enough to hear what he’s murmuring to her yet, but the indistinct rumble of his voice is comforting all the same. 

For a moment Clarke lets herself be lost in a fantasy where nothing is wrong and no one is beyond saving. Where their friends are a little ways away, building their own homes, and she and Bellamy are building one here, together, where he loves her and he’s waiting for her to come home. She raises a hand to her cheek and closes her eyes, pretending its his gentle touch. She’ll walk out from behind his bush, and he’ll smile to see her like he smiled to see Picasso, and they’ll be happy, and everything they’ve done will have had _sense_. 

A tear rolls down her cheek and she chokes back a sob.

Well, it was worth a try. God, how many tears can a human body possibly hold? She opens her eyes to the sound of crackling leaves and finds Picasso bounding towards her, nosing curiously at her hands. She can see the second Bellamy realizes she’s there. The smile melts right off his face, and he sets his shoulders like he’s bracing for a fight. 

"What do you want?"

 _Everything you have to give_ , Clarke thinks deliriously.

"I came to see how you were doing." Clarke says, walking a little closer so they don’t have to raise their voices to be heard across the gap between them. 

Bellamy gestures vaguely towards his little camp. 

"Well, you’ve seen. And as you can see, I’m still busy, so you can go now."

She makes no move to leave. How can she? There’s nothing else to tempt her in the universe.

"Why are you still here?" He asks roughly. 

"I want - I _need_ to apologize." Clarke says. Bellamy’s gaze is more scathing than the Judge’s ever was. She feels dizzy just being this close to him.

"Come here." Clarke couldn’t ignore the command if she wanted to. His voice is half an octave lower than it was a moment ago and her body obeys before her mind even understands. She feels the familiar burn in the back of her throat and behind her eyes and blinks stubbornly to keep herself from crying again. She stops just a step away from Bellamy, close enough to drink in sights she never thought she’d see again. The brown of his eyes is richer out here, somehow, like he’s more real and more vivid out among the trees than he ever was in Sanctum or Bardo, and he’s beautiful even when he’s looking at her with such fury. 

"I’m sorry." It comes out as barely more than a shaky whisper. 

"I’m not convinced you mean it." he says coolly. "Get on your knees."

It’s the first crack she’s seen in his immaculate anger, the first hint that there might, underneath all the hurt, eventually be a path to forgiveness. Clarke takes it as the mercy it is and kneels immediately, all the air in her lungs leaving with a rush of relief and desperate want. Above her, Bellamy’s face is inscrutable and a little dangerous. 

"I’m sorry, Bellamy. I’m so sorry." And she is. She’s been drowning since the minute she pulled the trigger, and she doesn’t know how to put it into words.

Her breath hitches as he takes another half step closer and raises his hand to her face. He gently hooks a stray piece of hair with one finger, his knuckles brushing against her temple, and carefully lifts it away from her face, smoothing it down with the rest of her hair. Clarke trembles as his hand comes back up to her face, the soft pad of his thumb brushing away a tear as it falls. She cannot help but lean into his hand, desperate for another gentle touch. 

He gives her just another moment before letting his hand drop. 

"I don’t forgive you," he says at last, and Clarke chokes on her gasp. 

He walks away and bends over to pick up the wood he dropped earlier, resuming the construction of his cabin like she’s not even there. Clarke retreats in a blur of tears, stumbling over roots and uneven ground. 

The worst part is that she thinks he’s right to hate her.

* * *

Clarke sleeps in fitful snatches in the hollows of tree trunks, among the dens of burrowing things. She eats whatever she can trap, which isn’t much, especially after she leaves half her catches hung in the trees at the outskirts of Bellamy’s territory. They’re gone when she returns, but that doesn’t mean necessarily mean he’s taking them - Picasso eyes her dinners with keen interest. There’s not much else to do in a day, when there’s no one to kill and she’s not interested in building anything permanent, so she wanders, mostly. She throws rocks into the river just to tire herself out and find quiet, angry satisfaction in the biggest splashes.

And she looks at the stars, sometimes, trying to find patterns, but she can’t tell herself the stories nearly as well as Bellamy could. 

But Bellamy doesn’t want her. 

She puzzles over the mystery of his presence here, sometimes. He doesn’t belong in purgatory with her, if there’s anyone whose heart she believed in, it would have been Bellamy’s. She wants to scare up the Judge again, talk her into letting Bellamy have the transcendence he was so sure of he was willing to endanger Madi for. It’s not fair. 

Nothing has been fair since the day the dropship launched. Maybe, if she is being very honest with herself, nothing has ever been fair. 

Days pass. Time feels muddled. A dream that’s gone on too long. Bellamy’s cabin gains three more walls and a thatched roof. She’s hiding in the bushes the day he starts dragging furniture out of the bunker to put into it, and has to clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter when he realizes he can’t fit the bed through the narrow doorway he’s left himself and stands around scratching his head thoughtfully. Then she has to muffle her sobs, instead, when she thinks that she could have pointed it out to him earlier, if only he wanted her around.

She doesn’t go into the bunker if she can help it. Doesn’t want to make Bellamy think she’s claimed it, when he already looks a little wary approaching it. And she doesn’t like being inside anymore. When she dies - and she thinks it might be soon - she wants to be under the sky, feeling a breeze on her face.

She’s bathing in the river when she hears the shout, and she freezes halfway through soaking her hair.

It doesn’t matter that she and Bellamy are the last people left in the universe, that there’s no one else left to cry out in pain in these woods. Their numbers could be a million strong and she would still be able to pick his voice out from all the others. She doesn’t need to rule out anyone by process of elimination. She just _knows_ , like an animal knows, like a mouse’s heartbeat quickens at the first shadow overhead, like a fawn knows how to walk before the birthing blood is gone, like a seedling grows towards the light. She would know him even after death.

Clarke allows herself only a second of fear before she’s wading out of the river as quickly as she can, ignoring the bite of pebbles digging into her bare feet and the cold air against her wet skin. She yanks her pants on as quickly as she can, cursing the tight spots, and grabs her jacket to put on along the way, abandoning the rest of her things on the rocky shoreline. Halfway to Bellamy’s camp she wishes she had stopped to put on shoes, at least, if only because she could get to him faster if she didn’t have to wince every time she steps on a rock, but a minute later she’s stumbling into his camp and every thought flies out of her mind at the sight of blood on white. 

For a heartbeat she’s back on Sanctum, with a gun in her hand, watching the stain on his chest spread, and then he looks up at her and curses, and she’s back. 

"It’s fine, it’s a shallow cut." he says brusquely, but Clarke pulls his hands away anyway, inspecting the gash across his leg for herself. It takes her only a second to piece together the utility knife dropped on the ground, the wood he had been trying to carve. She lets out a sigh of relief and presses Bellamy’s hand back down over the wound. She doesn’t need to keep her own hands on top of his, but she does, selfishly, drinking in the first touch he’s given her in what might be a few weeks. 

She shakes her head roughly to remind herself of what’s important, and looks around his camp for something to bandage him up with. She finds worn towels inside the cabin - and she doesn’t let herself pause on the doorstep, imagining him sleeping here and standing by the table and drinking out of the mug on that stool, she _doesn’t_ lose herself in the little daily routine she’s not a part of, and she returns to find that the bleeding has mostly stopped, and Bellamy is examining the blood on his hands with gruff distaste.

She kneels in front of him and fiddles with the towel, trying to decide how to convince him to take it easy for a few days and let that scab over when he doesn’t want to listen to anything that comes out of her mouth. But when she looks up at his face, there’s no stubborn anger, no fire waiting to meet her. For the first time since everyone they’ve ever known transcended and left them behind, Bellamy looks shaken. Clarke follows his gaze and looks down. 

Heat rises immediately in her cheeks as she realizes that in her haste to get to him, she pulled the zipper up on her jacket only about halfway up her chest, and the jacket sits loosely on her, baring the inner sides of her breasts. She yanks it up to her collarbones, burning with embarrassment, and looks anywhere but at him as she stands to go. 

Bellamy’s hand darts out and catches her wrist. "Look at me," he says, his voice low and urgent. Clarke stares stubbornly at the ground beneath her feet, willing her traitorous blush to go away. Bellamy’s grip on her wrist tightens imperceptibly. "Look at me, Clarke" he says again, in a voice impossible to disobey. 

She raises her head and meets his eyes. There’s something on his face that makes her heart speed up. Not danger, exactly. She’s not afraid of him. She’s not sure she’s ever been afraid of him, actually. But she’s very aware that they’re standing on the edge of a divide they’ve never been brave enough to cross for a reason. 

Her only consolation is that he also seems to be holding his breath as he raises one hand and carefully picks up the zipper of her jacket between two fingers. Clarke’s legs are shaking under her weight and the intent heat of Bellamy’s face. He starts to pull the zipper down, slow enough that she has plenty of time to knock his hand away or move back as he bares her. She stands her ground. Her cheeks aren’t on fire anymore. All of her is as he reaches the end of the zipper and the two sides of her jacket fall away with a quiet click. He nudges it further apart with the back of his hand and Clarke shivers as her nipples are exposed to the air.

"Beautiful." Bellamy says quietly, and she makes a choked sound in the back of her throat. The hint of a smirk flashes across his face as her eyes flutter shut - gone before she registers it and snaps her eyes open - and then he cups her breast with one huge, warm hand. 

Clarke has had dreams about these hands. They don’t compare to the reality, and her knees threaten to give out as his thumb traces a lazy circle across the soft curve of her skin. He looks stricken and yanks his hand back as quickly as he’d reached for her. Clarke finds that she can breathe again, but a wave of terror rises up in her at the loss of his touch, that he’s disgusted with himself, that she’ll be torturing herself with the tiniest taste of what he could give her for the rest of her lonely life on this planet.

_No, please. Please touch me again._

Before she can say anything aloud, he stands and nudges her towards the open doorway of his cabin. Clarke follows blindly, confused and reeling. He’s limping, but barely. She doesn’t understand until Bellamy retrieves a bucket from underneath the table and dunks his hands into the water, scrubbing away the blood. She says nothing as he dips the corner of a towel into the water and pushes her jacket off her shoulders, letting it bunch up at her elbows. The first cool touch of the damp towel upon the streaks of blood his hand left on her breast makes her shiver. She closes her eyes and lets herself lean into the sensation, but she doesn’t relax. 

She remembers what happened last time Bellamy treated her so gently. She wonders if it was a game for him, if he found some savage pleasure in making her tremble underneath his hands and telling her she wasn’t forgiven just as she began to think she might be. 

That doesn’t stop her from moaning when Bellamy tosses away the towel and starts touching her with his hands again. Everywhere his warm palms touch burns, and her skin is cold in their wake. She can’t decide where she wants him more. His fingertips along her collarbones make her shiver nearly as much as when he shamelessly palms and massages both breasts. 

"Look at you," Bellamy growls, and if Clarke weren’t already painfully aroused, his voice would be enough. "That feels good, doesn’t it?"

"Yes," Clarke breathes. 

"I know. I can read it on your face, Princess. Did you ever think about my hands on you?"

 _All the time_. Heat rises in her cheeks again, and when she opens her eyes Bellamy’s smile is a nearly feral. 

"You did." he says approvingly, pinching a nipple so tightly between two fingers that it makes her squeak in pain. She wants more the second he’s let go. "Tell me what you thought about."

Every fantasy she’s ever had flies right out of her mind. She doesn’t think she could remember anything with his hands on her, and anyways none of them could compare to the real thing - how warm and demanding and _heavy_ his hands feel against her. All she can think of now is a rush of wetness between her legs, and an ache, and how badly she wants him to soothe it away. 

"You were - " she tries and breaks off into a moan when he slaps the side of one of her breasts. " _Bellamy_."

"Use your words, Princess."

Clarke’s courage returns all in a rush. "I thought about your mouth. And your hands, oh - " she gasps, too far gone in a haze of arousal to care how coherent she sounds. "Bellamy, you were touching me. I thought about you fingerfucking me, you made me cum for you - "

His hands leave her chest long enough to unbutton her pants and spin her around. Her back is suddenly pressed up against Bellamy’s broad chest, her shoulders bare against his warmth. The jacket is still hanging at her elbows, pinned between their bodies and unexpectedly restraining her wrists at her sides. 

Bellamy’s hand smooths down her stomach and further down, past the waistline of her pants. She hears him groan when he realizes she didn’t stop to put underwear on, but it only makes him falter a second, and then his fingertips are dragging on either side of her clit, so close to where she wants him and not close enough for any relief. He forces his hand further down and Clarke in his grip, thinking that if she could get her hands free she could push her pants lower on her hips, give his hand more room - but his other arm wraps around her chest, underneath her breasts, and pulls her up until she’s standing on her tiptoes, balancing against his chest. 

And _oh_ , those loose Bardo pants do very little to hide how hard he is. She can feel his cock nestled against her ass and the _size_ of it pressing against her makes her head spin. His hand continues on its merciless path and Clarke lets out a broken moan as his fingertips finally reach her aching cunt. 

"Fuck, Princess, you’re soaked," Bellamy swears, his warm breath spilling over her neck. "Is this all for me?"

"Please - " she moans, rocking against him, trying to get more friction than he allows her. Bellamy tightens the arm he’s pinning her with, while the hand between her legs continues making lazy, unhurried circles around her cunt. She doesn’t understand how he’s so calm, so collected when she can feel how aroused he is too. The slick sound of her own wetness should embarrass her, but it only makes her more breathless, that he has so much evidence of how he’s affecting her, that she’s so gone for him. "It’s for you," She sobs. "Bellamy, Bellamy _please_."

"Please what?" he asks, his lips brushing against her hair. She needs his fingers inside her, needs him to make her feel stretched, to make room for his cock.

"Stop teasing me," she gasps, craning her neck to try to kiss his jaw. "I need your fingers."

"Need them where?" he asks, and finally, _finally_ , his fingers retreat and ghost across her clit with unerring accuracy. Her cunt still clenches on nothing, feeling achingly empty, but she’ll take anything, any relief he’ll give her. "Here?"

" _Yes,"_ Clarke all but sobs, straining in his grip as he keeps his touch light and fleeting. 

"Beg for it," he demands, his voice dropping lower than she’s ever heard it. "Beg, Clarke. How much do you want it?"

She lets out a quiet keen of despair and her own voice sounds foreign, distant to her ears. It’s not fair of him to want language from her when she feels wound up so tight. She doesn’t want to remember how to string words together. She wants a relief so violent it makes her black out, and it’s so close, she’s so close - 

"Please, Bellamy, please please _please_ \- " His fingertips finally bear down on her clit and she can’t even remember how to beg, she can’t remember how to _stand_. Her vision fades at the edges and all she can do is take little gasps of air in between broken moans. " _Bellamy_ \- " she says, and she can feel her orgasm within reach and a deep calm settles over her, and - he stops.

He actually _stops._

His hand retreats out of her pants, leaving a wet trail up her stomach and a distinct lack of relief just when she was so close. The arm he was holding her up with lingers just long enough to make sure she doesn’t totally collapse to her knees before he steps away. 

"Bellamy?" she asks, turning around on shaky legs to face him. 

His face is impassive as he reaches for the towel on the table and wipes his hand clean of her fluids. 

"How are you feeling, Princess?" he asks, as casually as someone might ask about the weather. Maybe he can tell she’s in no position to gather her thoughts, because he doesn’t wait for her to respond. "Frustrated? You must be. You know what else is frustrating? _Your best friend shooting you in the chest_."

He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Bellamy…" Clarke begins tentatively, not knowing what she’ll say yet. 

"Get out of my house." he says, his eyes burning and furious again. Clarke can still see the outline of his hardon through those soft white pants, but she doesn’t argue. She yanks her jacket back up over her shoulders and pulls the zipper up to her collarbones, like armor. Like she wasn’t trembling on his hand thirty seconds ago. Like she can erase every vulnerable and aching part of her he’s seen as easily as he’s erased his.

This time, she raises her chin high and doesn’t cry on her way out. Not until she’s bathed in the river again and gotten properly dressed and Picasso comes bounding out of the trees to greet her with a sad, questioning whine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiny brain - fuck Clarke for killing Bellamy  
> big brain - fuck jrot for killing Bellamy  
> galaxy brain - Bellamy's fine and he's gonna fuck Clarke in every position I can think of, for as many chapters as I can type out with my spiteful little shipper fingers
> 
> I have some ideas already but I'm open to kink suggestions. no promises however, I have pretty specific tastes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting the bothered in hot and bothered

There’s not much left of the bunker, so Clarke thinks she’s dreaming when she finds Maya’s music player. 

Or if she’s not dreaming, then having a nightmare - those happen more often these days. She sits down and turns it over and over in her hands, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but it doesn’t start seeping blood from the headphone jack or anything and the metal feels cool and solid in her palm, so. 

If it's a nightmare, it's not one of _those_ nightmares.

She spends the next several days poking around the sections of the bunker that don’t look like they’re immediately about to collapse on her head. She doesn’t find a charger, but she _does_ find a portable radio with a matching plug, so then she sets about looking for batteries, and the first few that she finds have corroded at the ends, but at last she finds an intact set. She holds her breath as she slots them in and plugs Maya’s music player in. 

Nothing happens. Of course, it would have been stupid of her to hope for anything, they’re centuries-old, but -

The screen crackles to life. Clarke lets out a whoop of joy and it echoes down the bunker’s empty, rubble-filled halls. 

No, not here. Too many ghosts here, it’s not right. She hauls the radio outside and down to the river, where the foliage opens up and the sun is shining. She sets it down on a rock and hits play, and oh, _music_ , she almost forgot what that was like. The first static-y notes make her throat close up. She’s crying again by the time the vocalist begins and she hears another human voice. 

It’s something slow and sweet: a love song. Clarke hastily hits next, and next, and next, until she finally finds something with a thrumming drumline, something that itches underneath her skin and makes her want to _move_.

She’s reminded, strangely, of Unity Day parties on the Ark, of warm and sweaty bodies pressing in all around her, the simple joy of moving in unison with a crowd. They’ll never have that again. She’ll never again feel the breathless claustrophobia at the center of the crowd, the sense of belonging. She’ll never again be held like she means something. If she’d known back on Sanctum, the night Russel tried to kill her, that it would be the last party she’d ever see, she would have… 

She would have…

She would have tried to appreciate it more, though at the time she was already captivated by the flashing lights and the gauzy fabrics and the thrill of a stranger wrapped around her.

Clarke closes her eyes and tries to put herself back in the memory, letting her hips sway to the beat. She drags her hands up her sides, trying to pretend they’re someone else’s hands, that she’s not alone, that she’s a single insignificant body in a beautiful swarm of limbs. It doesn’t work, but the memory of warm hands on her body and stubble scraping against the back of her neck is better than spending yet another day crying. 

So she throws herself into it, lifting her hands into the air and humming along to the melody, and the smile it draws out from her might be a little sharp, a little feral, but the joy is real. She exhales and a certain peaceful clarity settles over her.

The world’s ended. There’s no one left to fight. She may as well dance. 

She doesn’t know how many songs later Picasso’s bark makes her open her eyes. Picasso comes bounding up, and pauses only a moment to sniff curiously at the radio before butting her head into Clarke’s thighs. Clarke gasps in exaggerated delight and slaps her thighs. 

“Dance with me!” she says. “Come on girl!”

Picasso jumps up onto her hind legs and Clarke grabs her paws before she can lose her balance. Her tongue flops out of the side of her mouth in delight as Clarke swings her paws from side to side. 

“Look at you, you’re a natural!” Clarke tells her. Her tail starts wagging even harder. 

She’s not sure how she realizes they’re not alone. She doesn’t hear him approach, not over the music, and he’s not in her field of vision. But the back of her neck prickles, and Clarke raises her head automatically. She’s always had an unnatural sense for where Bellamy is around her and it hasn’t faded with time. He’s standing at the edge of the treeline, his body stiff, his face as open to her as a stone wall. When he finally puts one foot in front of the other, it’s slow and reluctant.

_You came back. You came for me._

Bellamy opens his mouth and says something that goes unheard over the music. When Clarke tilts her head at him, he scowls at the radio still blaring lively dance music and gestures towards it angrily. 

“Turn it down!” he yells, and maybe it’s Clarke’s roaring pulse, maybe a familiar fire she’d thought had gone out with age, but something disobedient sparks in her. She smiles at him and sways over to the radio in no particular hurry. His eyes never leave her, even as he clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a very good look for him.

Clarke reaches for the volume dial. “You want it louder?” she yells, and turns it up without waiting for an answer. The deeper Bellamy scowls, the wider her smile grows. 

She can’t hear his reply over the music now, but she can read enough of it over his lips to tell he’s not amused. Well, good. If he doesn’t like her music, he can make good on his threat and go build another cabin further away from her. 

He could have left. He could have ignored her. 

He hasn’t. 

She turns the volume up higher, and Picasso begins to make anxious loops around the rock the radio is balanced on, bumping against Clarke’s knees as she passes. _Patience_.

Bellamy’s jaw twitches again, and he uncrosses his arms and marches towards her with all the unstoppable fury of a storm. His hand lands over hers, forcing her to turn the dial down until the music is just a tinny whisper. 

“That’s not cute.” he says flatly. He is close enough to loom over her, close enough that she can feel the warmth off his chest and sinking into her fingers, and Clarke is breathless with anticipation, her heart hammering so furiously in her chest she’s nearly afraid he can hear it.

“What’s not?” Clarke says, not even trying to hide her grin. 

“You know what,” Bellamy growls. He seems to finally notice that his hand is still resting over hers, and drops it like she’s burning him. If Clarke could smile any wider, she would.

“Oh, was my music too loud?” she asks innocently.

“Do whatever the hell you want.” Bellamy says. “I came to warn you there’s a storm coming.”

“How bad?” Clarke answers, tilting her head in curiosity and frowning.

Bellamy’s mouth opens and closes, and at last he scowls. 

“Not that bad,” he says at last. “Nevermind.” Clarke’s heart falls as he spins on his heels and starts marching away, his shoulders stiff, his head bowed. He doesn’t make it to the treeline before he’s stopped and marching back towards her with the same intensity, his eyebrows furrowed. She quickly schools her face into something neutral. "Where do you live?" he asks brusquely.

Well. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that. She shrugs. "Around."

"You haven't built any shelter? What are you going to do when winter comes?"

Clarke gives him a humourless smile. "That's at least six months away. Maybe I'll get lucky and die by then." It’s a joke. The sort the old Bellamy would have given her a bitter little chuckle for. She can imagine him now, 6 years younger and a century ago, clean-shaven, less ghosts in those ancient brown eyes. He’d press his lips together and give a funny grimace, trying not to smile. Then he’d probably tilt his head and the lines around his eyes would go soft and worried as he scrutinized her face to see how serious she is, to weigh if she needs a speech on the merits of self-preservation again. 

There’s none of that easy give and take with him now, just the clench of his jaw.

"You don't get to die,” he says, and it sounds like a threat.

Clarke spreads her arms wide. "What else is there left for us to do? Hmm? There's no one else, Bellamy. Our natural human lifespan is a blip on a cosmic scale. Six more months or six more decades before the human race is extinct, it doesn't make a difference."

He stares at her a moment longer, nostrils flaring with anger, until finally his gaze flickers down and he can’t seem to look back at her. 

“You don’t get to die,” he says again, quieter now. 

“Fine,” Clarke says dismissively. 

“Fine.” He walks away and this time, he doesn’t turn back. Clarke makes sure to turn the music back up to a deafening volume before he’s out of sight.

* * *

  
“I’m going to go into this with no expectations,” Clarke says, ducking under a tree branch. Picasso huffs at her ankles and Clarke pretend that means she’s listening.. “If he doesn’t want to accept it, then that’s… that’s fine. That will be fine, really. But I’m just gonna go up to him and try to explain myself and - “

She takes a deep breath as Bellamy’s cabin comes into sight through the trees. It’s already getting dark, the long shadows of sunset fading into dusk, and the forest is still and quiet around his little cabin. She shouldn’t have left this so late - she’ll be making her way back to her camp in dim light, at this point - but it took hours after convincing herself she needed to talk to him to gather the actual courage to do it. 

Well, she’s here now. 

She reaches down and scratches behind Picasso’s ears, finding comfort in the warmth radiating off her fur. 

“At least you’re here for moral support,” Clarke murmurs, and then, because the universe hates her, Picasso catches scent of something upwind more interesting than her and starts sniffing away. Clarke watches her wagging tail vanish into the bushes and bites her lip. “All right,” she says. “Guess not.”

The longer she stands here, staring at the flickering candlelight glowing in Bellamy’s window, the less she wants to face him again. Clarke steels herself and marches forward before her confidence can desert her as quickly as Picasso does.

 _What are you afraid of?_ she asks herself as she walks the dirt path up to his door. _That he’ll reject you? He’s already done that._

She freezes in place on his doorstep when she hears a soft grunt from inside the cabin. Her first thought is that he’s injured herself again, and she’s already raising her hands to push open the door when - 

“ - _Clarke_ ,” he moans, and _oh_ , it’s not pain. She doesn’t catch on fast enough to stop the momentum of her hands, and the door creaks open into a sudden, breathless silence. Clarke’s pulse roars in her ears. 

_What are you afraid of?_ she asks herself again, and forces herself to take a step over the threshold. Bellamy is already staring at her as she raises her head to look at him, and her mouth goes dry at the sight of him sprawled in a cushioned chair, his pants loose around his hips and one hand fisted around the base of his flushed cock. His eyes are dark and furious and a little bit wary, but he makes no move to hide himself or pretend he’d been doing something else for a long moment as they stare each other down. Clarke takes this as permission to drink in more details. 

No fantasy compares to the reality of his flesh. Even in his hand, which is so much larger than hers, his cock looks thick enough to make her breath catch in her throat. She can’t help but try to imagine how it would feel if she tried to seat herself in his lap, how he would stretch her open and leave no room for anything else in her. His skin is shining faintly in the flickering candlelight and it makes her think he’s probably using his spit to make his hand slick and she can think of more ways to do that and - 

“I can help,” she says. All plans of an apology - more of a confession, really - fly right out the window, and the sharp inhale Bellamy takes at her words makes her suddenly certain this is the right thing to do instead. He doesn’t want her words, but she still needs to find absolution somehow. 

He says nothing for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he thinks it over. Then - 

“Get on your knees,” he says, his voice lower and more dangerous than Clarke has heard it in a while. She’s sinking to her knees before she even fully registers the command and the wave of relief that washes over makes her hands tremble from where they’re splayed on her thighs. 

Bellamy takes his time standing and walking the last few steps between them. He raises a hand and shoves the cabin door shut without looking away from her face, then wraps it back around his cock and gives himself a few slow, lazy pumps In front of her face. The motion of his hand raises goosebumps on Clarke’s skin. Up close she can see that her estimates of his size weren’t optimistic at all, and even by the dim light she can see freckles trailing down from his navel. She never imagined he’d have freckles here, and it strikes her suddenly as a terrible lack of imagination. She loves them immediately, loves that she’d be able to tell this is his skin even if she couldn’t see his face. 

“Well?” Bellamy prompts her, and she realizes she’s done nothing yet but stare at him in breathless anticipation. She immediately leans forward on her knees and reaches for his cock, only to have her hand slapped away. “You haven’t earned your hands yet,” Bellamy says harshly, and it cuts through some of the hazy wonder, reminds her why she came. 

So she puts her hands behind her back, looks up at the face she sees in every dream and nightmare, and opens her mouth obediently. 

Bellamy surges forward without any more hesitation and feeds his cock past her lips. She makes a small sound of surprise when he pushes himself further into her mouth on that first thrust than she expected and she can feel how out of practice she is, how forgotten muscles in her jaw wake up to accommodate such a thick intrusion. Oh, _god_ , if she had known how big he was all along she might have swallowed her pride in those early days at the dropship and sneaked into his tent herself. No wonder Roma and the others made such a fuss. Her eyes begin to flutter shut and she forces them open, forces herself to look up at Bellamy’s face. 

As soon as their gazes meet again he curses and throws his head back. 

The moan she makes in the back of her throat as he pulls back slightly and then thrusts again is a little muffled around his cock but Bellamy seems to like it, if his sharp breath is any indication. His hands fly up to her head and she thinks he’s going to shove her mouth on him like they’re shitty seventeen year olds on the Ark again but no, she should have known he’d have a little more elegance than that. He gathers her hair with trembling fingers into a bun at the back of her head and holds it tightly in his fist. His grip when he pushes her head down on his cock is not quite rough, but firm enough that he leaves no question about which one of them is going to set the pace of this.

He keeps working his way into her mouth and Clarke tries to breathe around his sizeable thrusts and relax her throat. She finally manages to time it so the head of his cock slips past the back of her mouth and into the tightness of her throat and _fuck_ , the broken moan Bellamy makes is well worth the sting of tears in her eyes and the animal instinct to panic when her airway is cut off. She doesn’t try to force the fear down, just revels in it, in feeling helpless on her knees before him. There’s a familiar ache building between her own legs and Clarke’s so aroused she’s certain that if she tried right now she could probably slip two or three fingers knuckle-deep into her cunt without working up to it and she wonders briefly if Bellamy would mind if she touched herself, before she remembers he said she hasn’t earned her hands. 

_Let me earn it_ , she thinks desperately, lost in a haze of suspended pleasure as he keeps thrusting into her mouth. She can tell Bellamy’s getting close when he starts to lose his rhythm and his breaths come harsh and fast over the wet sound of her mouth. His hand tightens its grip on her hair and the sting as it pulls on her scalp is one of the sweetest things Clarke’s ever felt. 

“ _Clarke_ ,” he moans. _He’s going to cum, I’m going to make him cum_ , she thinks deliriously, just as he abruptly lets go of her hair and pulls out of her mouth. Clarke blinks at the shock of it but Bellamy only bites his lip and grabs the base of his cock, squeezing tightly. “Take your shirt off,” he says roughly. “Take it off now - “

Clarke scrambles to yank it over her head and manages to unlatch her bra just as Bellamy gives his cock a few last furious tugs. He surrenders with a gasp and hot ropes of cum splatter over the tops of Clarke’s breasts. Her breath hitches as Bellamy’s fingers slow into gentle caresses along the length of his cock. Fuck, he’s beautiful. She doesn’t care that her clit is throbbing for attention and she hasn’t gotten to touch him at all. She can die happy right now, with him as her last sight. 

The post-orgasm bliss on Bellamy’s face doesn’t last long. In a moment he comes back to himself and his eyebrows lower into a frown again. Clarke’s hopes fall as he turns away from her, but only to sit back down in the chair she found him in. He leans his chin onto one fist and stares at her with narrowed eyes, while his other hand is still very gently tugging at his softening cock. 

“Why’d you come?” he asks, his voice rough again, no hint of the vulnerability she’d just heard in him. Clarke swallows hard. 

“You know why,” she whispers. Bellamy’s eyes darken. 

“Take off your pants,” he says, and Clarke blinks in shock. It takes her a moment to stand, her legs having apparently gone stiff underneath her while she was kneeling, but she doesn’t hesitate any longer before stripping. Bellamy’s cum trickles slowly down her stomach as she stands before him. Bellamy pats his lap in an unspoken command, and Clarke takes a deep breath before sitting between his thighs. 

She sits stiffly and uncertainly at first before he gives her shoulder a small push to tell her to relax back against his arm. His other hand, the one that was just on his cock, wanders aimlessly along her skin, raising goosebumps on her bare thigh in its wake and painting meaningless swirls on her chest with his cooling cum. She shivers, and his hand stills. 

“If you could only have one…” Bellamy begins to say. “Between my fingers filling you up, and my forgiveness, which would you pick?”

“Forgiveness,” Clarke says immediately, her voice cracking. 

Bellamy makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. He finally raises his gaze from the sight of her body and looks at her face. He looks less angry now, but still exhausted. He looks like the boy she knew who would take too many shifts on guard, who would try to keep working with blood dripping down his face, who tried so hard to protect everyone. He’s still Bellamy.

His hand finds her clit, and Clarke understands without needing to be told that he isn’t giving her a choice between the two. Forgiveness isn’t an option yet. 

Her heart falls and tears spring up in her eyes even as she shifts to part her thighs further and give him better access. She bites back the tears as his fingers trace tight circles around her clit and _fuck_ , her body hardly knows what to do with such contradictory feelings. His finger strokes along her slit, gathering her wetness, and he slips inside her cunt with hardly any resistance. The traitorous relief she feels at finally being filled up, even if it’s only one of his fingers and not the massive cock that made her so wet in the first place, makes her let out a broken moan and the tears beading at the corners of her eyes finally fall down her cheeks. 

“Do you want this?” Bellamy asks softly, his hand stilling. 

“Yes,” Clarke whispers, tucking her head underneath his chin and biting her lip hard. If she can’t have him the way she wants, at her side, trusting her again, _loving_ her, then she’ll take him like this. She’ll take it and pretend for just a few minutes that there’s love in his touch. And _fuck_ , he makes it easy to pretend, especially when he adds a second finger alongside his first and sinks them into her achingly slow. Clarke didn’t think it was possible, but his gaze gets darker still watching her mouth fall open with breathless wonder. And then he puts the rough pad of his thumb against her clit and she’s _sobbing_. 

“Are you going to come for me?” he asks lowly, and Clarke’s fingers dig into his shoulder, trying to find something to ground herself in, _anything_ to cling to in the onslaught of sensation. She can’t quite make out the expression on his face through the blur of tears and she’s not sure if this is another trick, or what the right answer is, if she should say yes or beg or pretend she doesn’t want it as much as she does. 

“I - “ she starts, and his thumb bears down harder on her clit. Her head falls back and she can’t remember how to string words together anymore. She thinks she might hate him.

“Do you want to come?” Bellamy asks again, and Clarke just nods. “Then do it. For once in your goddamn life, follow a fucking instruction.”

That’s all it takes. He thrusts his fingers into her cunt one last time, knuckle-deep and rough and thick enough that she feels almost full, and she orgasms with pinpricks of black static at the edge of her vision, like little stars going out. 

Clarke comes back to herself a moment later to realize that she’s still trembling in Bellamy’s arms as he stands and lifts her. A rush of fear chases out some of the languid pleasure still lingering in her limbs as she thinks he’s going to put her down so quickly, return her back to the reality where he can barely stand to look at her. 

Instead, he gently sets her down on worn sheets and walks away. Clarke strokes his bedsheets with her fingertips and then looks over her shoulder. Bellamy has his back to her and her eyes can’t help but stray to the firm curve of his ass. She listens to the quiet splash of water as he dips a rag into his bucket of water and cleans himself off and wonders if they could have had this is another life. If only she’d come home with him after Polis, or Praimfaya had never come, maybe he would have built a cabin just like this one in the shadow of the Alpha Station. Maybe she would have moved in, and loved him honestly, and watched him wash off every night. 

Maybe he’d turn to her with a smile. 

He sets the rag down and Clarke is not brave enough to be caught looking or to see what expression might be on his face. She lays her head back down, facing away, and forces herself to breathe slowly and peacefully. 

It’s agony, listening to him walk across the cabin floor and not knowing what’s coming. His shadow on the wall vanishes as he leans in and blows the candle out, and then there’s just darkness, and the bed gently sagging as he climbs in, and the soft drag of blankets against her side as he pulls them up. 

He doesn’t say anything or acknowledge her at all. But he lets her stay. 

Clarke stares at the wall in the darkness for a long time, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and trying to discern if he’s fallen asleep yet or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> babes if your man doesn't give you good aftercare and you guys aren't the super emotionally traumatized lone survivors of like ten different horrible dehumanizing wars + using sex as a method to reconnect and feel human again because you're so far gone nothing else would feel real, dump his ass. my personal fuck you to jrot is not a good representation of a healthy kinky relationship etc etc whatever.
> 
> hope y'all are having a fun time reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup. i was gone for a while so i'm hitting you with an absolute unit of a chapter. 
> 
> this one contains hints of forced orgasms in a 'I don't think i can handle any more but i kinda want you to make me try' sort of way.

The first thing Clarke registers is warmth, so profound and all-encompassing, so foreign after months of sleeping by herself between the roots of trees that it makes her sigh. 

The mattress shifts behind her and her eyes fly open as she hears Bellamy’s throaty voice, still rough from sleep, say - “Clarke? Are you awake?”

She closes her eyes and wills her body not to tense, not to give her away. She will not answer. She will not, she’s not ready to return to reality. Oh, god, last night wasn’t some kind of fever dream. There’s a pleasant soreness between her legs that speaks to a rough orgasm. Heat rises to her cheeks as she remembers Bellamy’s fingers twisting inside her cunt, and the way she made him moan _her_ name, the roughness with which he thrust his cock down her throat, and suddenly she’s as thirsty as if she hadn’t been sated at all last night.

But she also remembers him saying he still wouldn’t forgive her - even if it wasn’t in those exact words.

She will not face him. He can’t make her. She keeps her breathing slow and even and hopes he thinks she’s still dreaming.

After a long moment the bed shifts again and some of the tension melts out of her as she feels Bellamy roll off the mattress. His footsteps are quiet in the cabin as he dresses, like he’s actively trying not to wake her. She’s not sure if it’s a sweet gesture - a rare one, lately, since she tried to kill him - or if he’s so disgusted by last night he doesn’t want to face her right now either. But _he moaned her name_ ; not just with his cock in her throat but before, when he didn’t know she was on his doorstep, when he was touching himself. Clarke is sure she heard him.

She’s just not sure what it means. 

Bellamy finishes gathering his things, but Clarke does not move even after the cabin door squeaks open, even after she hears his footsteps retreating up the dirt path outside. She sits up slowly, carefully, and drifts to the edge of the window where she can hide if he looks back, but all she sees is a flash of his back vanishing between the trees. Away from the blankets - and from the warmth, she realizes, caused by his body - the morning air is chill against her bare skin. She shivers as goosebumps rise and looks down at herself. There’s no one else around to see, but she still blushes at the sight of streaks of dried cum down her chest and torso - further indisputable evidence it wasn’t a dream. 

Oh _god_. She needs time to figure out what the hell happened, and though part of her wants to stay in the cabin and claim it as her own - tell Bellamy to go make another one if he has a problem with her being here, or, wouldn’t it be funny (terrible) if he abandoned it to her? But no, she doesn’t… she feels so bare and vulnerable, nakedness aside. She can’t stay and wait for Bellamy to return just to be cruel to her again. She makes up her mind to rob him of the chance to reject her yet again and starts getting dressed with shaking fingers. 

Clarke looks around warily on the doorstep of the cabin as the door swings shut behind her, but there’s no sign of his return yet. Good. She runs. 

She’s good at running away.

* * *

Bellamy finds her in the late evening, as the sun drops low enough in the sky to send long shadows over the bend in the river where the water pools and slows. Clarke is setting nets in the shallows underneath a weeping willow tree, her pants rolled up to her knees, her mind blank with the simple joy of work. She felt steadier after bathing, calmer, even if a part of her mourned washing Bellamy off her skin. 

When she sees him again, only hours later, she straightens her back and raises her chin up high to hide the uncertainty that comes creeping back in. 

It’s harder to look straight at him now. Even the stark white pants she’s mocked on multiple occasions can’t make her forget that she knows the body underneath in more detail than she’d ever dared to hope she would. She forces her gaze away from the suggestion of muscle underneath his shirt and gives him the proudest, most fearless look she can muster. Bellamy drifts closer, ducking beneath swaying willow branches.

“I didn’t say you could leave,” he says softly, and the words hang between them. Clarke holds her breath as his toes stop at the shore where the river splashes up against pebbles. 

Clarke sees this for the peace offering it is. All the power Bellamy has over her right now depends on her participation. She could say she doesn’t need his permission and break the spell. 

Instead, she steps closer, her feet sending ripples through the shallows.

“Are you going to punish me?” she says in a light, daring tone, tilting her head. 

Bellamy’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk. For a moment, it’s like he’s the arrogant boy at the dropship again.

“I have a few ideas,” he says. He holds out his hand, and there is something painfully honest in his eyes. 

Clarke takes it.

* * *

  
Bellamy is perfectly silent as she undresses, but his eyes say enough. It’s not cold, but her skin still gets goosebumps under his gaze. Clarke forces down a shiver as he straightens up from the tree he was leaning against and circles around her, like a predator slowly sizing up his prey. She raises her chin high. She can walk away any time, but she wants to be chased.

Bellamy’s hand reaches out and he brushes his fingertips feather-soft along her waist as he returns to face her.

“You’re stalling,” Clarke says, in the most indifferent tone she can manage. His eyes, already as dark as night, grow heavier still. She could live a thousand lifetimes and never get used to being looked at like this. 

“Hands on that log,” he says roughly, pointing to a fallen tree trunk at the side of the clearing. “You stop touching it, and I stop touching you.”

Clarke’s mouth is dry as she walks to it - slowly, she’s not going to make this _easy_ for him - and braces her palms against the coarse bark. The fallen log is low enough that she has to bend to reach it, leaving her ass bare in the air. Which was, probably, Bellamy’s plan all along. She resists the urge to look over her shoulder to see if he’s close by or what he’s about to do. Her pulse is pounding in her ears. She is nearly dizzy with anticipation. 

The first touch is on the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. Bellamy’s fingertips are gentle as they stroke up her thigh, taking their time but leaving no doubt about their destination. Clarke inhales sharply as his fingertips brush fleetingly against the apex of her thighs before falling away. For a moment, there is nothing. Then - 

She yelps as his palm strikes the curve of her ass. It’s the shock of it that makes her jump, rather than any pain - the momentary sting immediately melts into something warm and sweet as honey. She can feel her face burning nearly as hot as her ass. She’s never been spanked like this before, and she’s unprepared for the _wave_ of wanting that stirs in her and makes her insides coil in anticipation.

“Hands on the log,” he reminds her, and it’s all the warning she gets before he spanks her again. Clarke doesn’t cry out this time, but it’s a near thing. She has to bite her lip to swallow down a moan. 

He strikes her four more times before she breaks and lets out a small moan. She tries to anticipate where and when the next impact will hit, but there’s no pattern to his relentless attack. Her knees shake, and Clarke leans forward to brace her forearms against the fallen trunk, arching her back even more. She realizes too late that technically, her palms have left, and her heart skips a beat waiting for another strike. 

Instead, Bellamy smooths his palm over her hot, stinging skin. 

“Mercy?” he asks. 

“No,” Clarke begs, her voice already cracking. He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat like he’s pleased, and Clarke would bend over a thousand more times to draw it out of him again. 

It turns out she doesn’t have to. He spanks her one more time and then lets his hand trail up her thigh again. When he finds her arousal already trickling down her skin, he curses in a low voice Clarke will remember for the rest of her terrible, lonely life. Every time Bellamy’s touched her she’s thought to herself that she could die now, knowing it doesn’t get better.

Every time, it does. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes, his fingertips circling her slick cunt. “Who would have thought the princess of Alpha Station likes bending over even more than she likes getting on her knees?” 

“Bellamy - “ Clarke moans, trying to rock back and get more friction against his hand. He quickly pulls his hand back and smacks her ass again, hard enough that the sound of his palm on her flesh echoes in her ears. Her vision goes black at the edges with pleasure, and by the time she remembers how to breathe again, Bellamy is slowly, slowly sliding a finger into her cunt.

“You’re _drenched_ ,” he says hoarsely. “Fuck, I could slide right into you, I wouldn’t even need to get you ready.” Through her haze of pleasure Clarke suddenly has a crystal-clear flash of memory of walking in on him with his hand fisted around his beautiful, thick cock, and the size of it as he thrust into her mouth and she wants him to fuck her open more than she’s ever wanted anything in her life. Her cunt clenches on his finger at his words, and Bellamy makes a pleased hum. “You want that? You want me to fuck you?” He punctuates his words by drawing his finger back and thrusting it even deeper, and Clarke can only moan and rock back against his hand, aching for more. His fingers are so much larger than hers and still not enough to fill her. 

“Please, Bellamy, _please_ fuck me,” Clarke begs. 

He abruptly grabs a fistful of her hair to pull her upright and spins her around, pressing the front of her body flush against his. 

“I think,” Bellamy says carefully, as Clarke blinks away the haze of arousal. “That you’re forgetting this is supposed to be a punishment.”

Then he crowds her back until her back is braced against the tree and kneels between her legs, pulling one of her knees over his shoulder to spread her open. Clarke’s head falls back and she lets out a broken moan as Bellamy’s mouth finds her clit. Between the contrast of her stinging skin and the sweet relief of his tongue on her clit she’s coming before she has a chance to consciously process that Bellamy Blake is really on his knees in front of her, eating her out, and this isn’t a fever dream or a fantasy from those long and lonely six years between apocalypses. This is _Bellamy_. This is _real_. Her first orgasm brings little relief. The second builds as violently as the first did, and she’s soon shaking against the tree with her fingers tangled in his curls, helpless and held up only by his shoulders. 

“Please - ” Clarke gasps as her vision returns. He’s still licking broad, rough strokes up her slit and she’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t let up, she’s just come harder than she has in her entire life twice and she’s so sensitive she doesn’t know if she wants to beg him to continue or stop. “Bellamy - please. Need to catch my breath - “

He sits back on his heels and lowers her trembling body to the ground. He makes only a half-hearted effort to wipe her slick off his chin with the back of his hand, and Clarke is reminded how marked she felt with his cum on her breasts. 

“You have thirty seconds,” Bellamy says roughly, and he takes off his shirt. Clarke’s gaze drops instinctively to his groin and his erection is so obvious even in his pants that it makes another wave of pleasure and trepidation roll through her entire body. He kicks his boots off without any care for where they land and frees his cock from his pants, giving it a few unnecessary pumps. 

Clarke’s memory didn’t exaggerate. He’s as massive as she remembers, and all of a sudden she realizes she’s never had anything so large inside her cunt before, and as wet as she is she just doesn’t see how he’s supposed to fit. He’s going to break her, and he won’t even _care_.

“Turn over,” Bellamy says, sounding nearly as breathless as she feels, and Clarke looks up into his wild eyes and makes her decision. Her thighs are still shaking as she turns to face the ground on all-fours. 

When she allowed herself to dream about this, it was happy. In her dreams he would take it slow, he would kiss her and he would return her terrible, all-consuming love and he wouldn’t hate her so much he wouldn’t look at her face as he entered her. That’s the dream. 

This is reality: his hand on her hip, holding her steady. His cock sliding against her folds at an agonizing pace, gathering her moisture with wet, filthy sounds that make her cheeks flush. Clarke does not dare to breathe. Finally, she feels the head of his cock nudge against the opening of her cunt. 

“Mercy?” Bellamy asks seriously, and Clarke is certain they could still walk their separate ways and live out the rest of their miserable days on this planet circling each other at a distance, never forgiving, never forgetting. Maybe she’s wrong and the real point of no return was walking into his cabin instead of away when she caught him masturbating, and letting him fuck her won’t change anything that isn’t already permanently altered between them, but it only takes her seconds to decide she is more afraid of losing this chance, and losing him, than she is of whatever will come after they’re thinking clearly again.

“No,” she says, digging her fingers into the dirt. “Fuck me.”

Bellamy’s hands tighten on her hips, and he starts sinking in without another moment of hesitation. Clarke gasps and instinctively tries to retreat as the head of his cock breaches her cunt and _oh_ , he’s too big, and even with how drenched and aching she is she can feel the sting of stretching to accommodate him, and he’s not _rough_ , not exactly, but his grip on her hips is absolutely unyielding. 

“You’re not going to fit - “ she gasps, and breaks off with a cry of surprise as Bellamy pulls out and strikes her ass, where her flesh was beginning to forget its punishment. 

“I will,” Bellamy says, and it sounds like a promise. “You’re going to take all of me if you want to be a good girl - “ and Clarke lets out a long and helpless moan as he sinks back in just a little bit deeper this time.

“I want to be good to you,” she whimpers, clawing weakly at the dirt under her hands and wishing she had something to hold onto, something to ground herself to that isn’t the overwhelming pain and pleasure between her legs. Bellamy’s hands on her hips pulling her back and forth are the only anchor she has. 

“You’re doing so well already,” Bellamy soothes, and he sounds almost _kind_ , almost _proud_ , and Clarke’s hopes soar just as he spanks her hard again. “You’re halfway there.”

 _Halfway_? she thinks, both terrified and delighted. The sting of her cunt stretching is quickly fading, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pressure like he’s splitting her in two. Clarke’s elbows give out and she braces herself against her forearms and rests her forehead on her hands. Bellamy groans in approval at the new angle and spanks her again. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he says breathlessly. “You have no idea how good you look like this, taking my cock so well. Do you feel good?”

“Yes,” she says faintly, dizzy from the rapid swings back and forth between his praise and the spanks. She’s never felt so alive. 

Bellamy groans as he rocks back into her and she feels him finally bottom out. Clarke’s jaw drops as she feels his hips flush against hers and realizes she’s done the impossible, she’s actually fit that entire massive, beautiful cock inside of her. He promised her, didn’t he? He promised her she could do it and she’d be a good girl, and she feels so full it’s a wonder she can still draw air into her lungs, but she did it.

Bellamy shifts his weight and splays one of his hands between her shoulderblades, forcing her down further still and pinning her to the ground. He rocks against her like he’s trying to get closer still, and Clarke’s eyes flutter shut from the overwhelming pleasure. Her mind is untethered - she turns her cheek against the dirt and lets herself drift on sensation. 

And after a brief reprieve, Bellamy starts to thrust even harder, pulling out of Clarke almost entirely before slamming all the way in. It’s simultaneously too much, and yet she knows nothing will ever be enough again. Her mouth opens to beg him to slow down or give her more, and all that comes out are desperate moans. Tears bead at the corners of Clarke’s eyes at every additional wave of pleasure.

She’s sobbing his name when she comes again and Bellamy surrenders with a curse, burying his cock deep inside her one last time. She feels a rush of heat and whimpers as he keeps rocking against her in tiny motions, drawing out aftershocks in both of them. 

She gasps when he finally pulls out and leaves a terrible emptiness in her. Without his hands bracing her, her thighs give out and she curls up on her side, eyes shut with exhaustion. 

When Clarke opens her eyes again, Bellamy is gone. 

She lies there for a while longer, thinking that she shouldn’t have expected anything else, but too exhausted to move and go get cleaned up and go back to whatever life is when Bellamy goddamn Blake isn’t fucking her brains out. She’d think it was a dream if it weren’t for her body’s satisfying soreness. 

She’s shocked when he returns a while later, wearing only his pants. He holds out his shirt for her, drenched in river water. 

“If you want to get cleaned up,” he says, in a carefully neutral tone. 

Bellamy starts building a fire as she gets dressed again, and by the time they’ve fed the spark of flint into a full-grown bonfire, the sky has deepened to a dark purple-blue and the first stars are tiptoeing out behind a veil of faint clouds. They sit in silence except for the crack and pop of burning wood, and Clarke tries to look at him without giving away that she’s looking, wondering where they stand now. If she was good enough to hate a little less. But Bellamy is just looking up at the sky, his face relaxed and thoughtful, and she is too afraid to reach out and touch his hand. She’s not sure the rules of their strange new dynamic. 

“Are you thinking about constellations?” Clarke asks softly.

“Sort of,” Bellamy says, and then his silence nearly makes her retreat. 

“Can you tell me a story?” Bellamy blinks in surprise, so she hastily adds: “I used to tell them to Madi, but… I always thought you’d do a better job. If I ever see her again… I mean, I know I won’t, but if I do - I’d like to know one of yours.”

A fleeting look of pain crosses his face at the reminder of everyone they’ve lost and will never get back. She thinks he might refuse her, but he points up at the sky at one of the brightest stars. 

“That’s Lyra,” he says. “Do you see it? It’s like a diamond with a point.”

Clarke takes the excuse to shuffle closer to him and press the side of her head against his outstretched arm, trying to follow the line of his finger.

“Do you see it yet?” he asks again. 

“Sure,” Clarke says, even though she’s not really sure. “What is it?”

“Orpheus’ lyre, said to be made by the gods from a tortoise shell,” Bellamy says. “He was a bard who played music so beautiful he could charm anything. People, rivers, rocks, gods. Monsters, even. He was in love with Eurydice, a nymph… and when she died, he walked into the underworld to bring her back. And his music was so beautiful even Hades and Persephone cried, and they struck a bargain. They would let Orpheus lead Eurydice back to the world of the living, but if he looked back to see if she was following, even once, he would lose her forever.”

“So he looked back,” Clarke says softly. 

Bellamy makes a quiet hum in the back of his throat. “How did you know?”

“All your stories are tragedies,” she says wryly. 

“That’s just what the Greeks were like,” Bellamy replies. 

Clarke leans back and squints at the sky, tracing diamonds in the sky, and thinks that it might be nice to love and be loved like that. Even if it didn’t work. 

Even if it wasn’t enough to save them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ me: stop writing scenes where Clarke is just standing around in a river jesus fucking christ  
> also me: what else is there to do on an uninhabited planet besides getting railed 
> 
> so what do yall wanna see next? don't say choking, that's already on the list. someone's already suggested titty fucking and possessive!Bellamy, which i am still thinking about how to incorporate. i think i have at least 2 more chapters in me, but i kinda want to balance the kink with the emotional pacing, so idk.


End file.
